


Not as Lonely as You Think You Are

by SailorChibi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF!John, BAMF!Mycroft, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Praise Kink, Student!Sherlock, Teacher!John, description of physical abuse, mentions of drug abuse, mentions of physical abuse, nothing happens until sherlock's eighteen, of a seventeen-year-old, seriously loads of hurt/comfort like whoa, sherlock being his cocky self
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-01-14 22:17:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1280836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being a teacher wasn't exactly what John had in mind when he was sent home after being shot. Falling in love with a student who has a difficult and possibly abusive home life wasn't even supposed to be a part of it, and yet here he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a commission for an anon who wanted John as a teacher and Sherlock as his student, with Sherlock being abused at home by his guardian and eventually ending up with John. Just as a note, there is an age gap of about 8-10 years but nothing sexual happens until Sherlock is over 18.

It was the sort of rainy, windy afternoon that would be better spent at home in front of the fireplace with a hot cup of tea and a good book. So why John Watson was making his way along the pavement, coat turned up at the collar and shoes soaked even after trying to avoid the worst of the puddles, was a little beyond him. He muttered a few choice curses under his breath as he finally turned into the shelter of a café, swiping his hands ineffectually against his sopping coat and leaning more heavily on his cane than usual as he looked around.

“Over here, mate!”

Oh yes. That was why. John forced a smile as he caught sight of one of his old friends, Mike Stamford. It was still a bit of a shock to see the once stick-thin man looking so plump, but one thing was still the same: Mike’s enormous grin was every bit as welcoming as always. He stood up as John approached and gripped his hand, pumping it enthusiastically as though it had been years since they’d last seen each other instead of just a few weeks. 

“Good to see you again,” John said, freeing his hand and easing himself down into the chair. He envied the effortlessness with which Mike plopped down but took care not to show it, stowing his cane beside the table. “I was surprised when you left me a message. Wasn’t expecting it.”

“I wanted to find out how you were doing with the school. Do you like it?”

“It’s okay. Not quite what I imagined when I returned to London,” John replied honestly. Then again, he hadn’t really imagined _anything_ for himself during those long days when he’d been trapped in a hospital bed. The army had been his life for the past several years, and being sent home in his late twenties had never been in the picture. He’d been at a complete loss until, by chance, he’d run into Mike and couldn’t find a polite way of saying no to having a coffee together. One thing had led to another and now John was sort of employed.

Mike chuckled. “It never is, but I knew you’d be fine. You were always a great teacher, John. I can’t count how many tests I would’ve failed if it weren’t for the fact that you sat my arse down and explained things until I understood.”

“A feat that was way more difficult than it should have been,” John muttered, smiling a little. He poured himself a cup of tea from the pot on the table and stirred it slowly. “To be honest, it’s not that bad. Some of the kids are actually interested in what I have to say. The rest just enjoy having a break from their normal teacher, I think.”

“Sounds about right. You know, if you really enjoy teaching you could always go back to school. Get your credentials.”

John shrugged. He’d been having fun for the past month, but he knew it was not something he would want to pursue full time. Being around young, healthy kids was more difficult than he’d anticipated. He didn’t like the feelings of bitterness that surged through him every time he watched a kid taking that for granted. “I’ll have to wait and see. There are some things about the school… I don’t know.”

“Like what?” Mike asked, looking genuinely curious. 

“Well, there’s this kid…”

Mike started to laugh. “Let me guess. You’re talking about Sherlock Holmes.”

“You know him?”

“I think everyone who’s ever talked to a teacher at that school has heard of him. He’s the bane of their collective existence, as far as I hear. Cocky, arrogant, knows everything and doesn’t feel the need to learn anything else…” Mike shrugged. “I met him once. He didn’t seem like a bad sort to me. Actually, he pointed out that there was something wrong with my back. I went to the chiropractor after that and I’ve never felt better.”

“He deduced it,” John said.

“Yup. Something about the way I was standing.” Mike shook his head fondly. “You don’t like him?”

“Actually, it’s the opposite.” John dropped his gaze to his tea. His stomach felt tight the way it always did when he thought about Sherlock Holmes. The kid was seventeen years old, just shy of eighteen, but you’d never know it from the way Sherlock walked and talked. He had a worldly presence that made him seem much older. And yet, at the same time, there was something intensely vulnerable about him that made John want to sequester him away somewhere safe. 

“Ah. You _like_ him.” The comment was accompanied by a suggestive eyebrow wiggle that made John flush.

“No!” he said, rolling his eyes and hiding his twitching hand underneath the table. “That’s – he’s just a kid, Mike. No, it’s… Sherlock’s really smart, and he doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut, and I… I don’t know. There’s something about his situation that worries me.”

The jovial air around Mike finally faded some and he sat up straight. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve noticed that sometimes when Sherlock comes in, he has a difficult time sitting still,” John told him, trying to organize his thoughts. He’d never talked about this with anyone, not yet. The one time he’d approached another teacher at the school about Sherlock, the teacher’s subsequent reaction had come very close to getting John fired. He’d never wanted to punch someone more in his life.

“Okay,” Mike said slowly, frowning.

“But not like he’s restless, more like… and I wouldn’t normally attribute anything to it, but then one of the teachers at the school told me that whenever Sherlock gets on her nerves she sends a note home to his uncle. And his uncle _makes sure_ that Sherlock behaves himself.” He couldn’t meet Mike’s gaze. The sick, angry feeling churning in his belly was too strong. “Whenever one of those notes goes home, Sherlock can’t sit still for the next couple of days.”

“John, you do realize what you’re suggesting.”

“Yeah, I do. I’ve been watching him for over five weeks now, Mike. I _know_.” John looked up then, relieved when he saw that Mike appeared to be worried. If he’d laughed or worse, been supportive of Sherlock’s uncle John wasn’t sure he would’ve been able to keep himself from dumping the steaming pot of tea over Mike’s head. “Everyone thinks he’s some… some arrogant sod who deserves what’s coming to him, but he’s still just a kid. He’s a fucking kid, Mike, and they all treat it like it’s a game.”

And it wasn’t. It was so far from a game that sometimes it was all John could do to keep from throwing up when he saw the downcast slump to Sherlock’s shoulders and the way he fidgeted, squirming restlessly like he physically could not keep still. On those days Sherlock rarely spoke, and when he did there was none of the confidence that normally surrounded him. He’d refuse to make eye contact and had flinched once when John reached past him to erase the board. 

He couldn’t understand how everyone else delighted in Sherlock’s silence.

Mike let out a slow breath and picked up his cup of tea. He sipped it for a long time, forehead wrinkled in thought, and the cup was empty when he put it back down. “I’m not sure what to tell you. Like I said, I’ve only met Holmes once and that wasn’t for very long. I do know his uncle is quite powerful, though.” He looked concerned now, but not for Sherlock. For John. “Are you sure you’re not reading too much into the situation?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so, but it’s not like I had the opportunity to sit Sherlock down and ask him.” John sighed and rubbed his forehead. The situation was a bloody mess and he had no clue how he was supposed to fix it. “Frankly, even if I did I’m not sure he would tell me the truth. We’ve only interacted in class.”

“Well, then I think that’s probably your answer.”

John blinked at him.

“You need to get to know Holmes better. Maybe if he realizes that you’re genuinely interested in him, he might open up a little. At the very least it sounds like the kid could use someone on his side, and you’re already invested in him if you’re still thinking about him on the weekend. You’ve got another few weeks at the school, John. Make them worth your while.”

It sounded so simple when Mike said it like that, but John was well aware that it would be anything but. He’d already made an attempt at talking to Sherlock a few times after class, but none of the conversations had really gone anywhere. Usually Sherlock would make some sort of deduction and then pause, staring at him expectantly, like he was waiting for John to get angry. And when John failed to respond, if only because he was biting back praise at Sherlock’s intuitive leaps of logic, the resulting minute or two of awkward staring would only be broken when Sherlock finally made an excuse and left.

Sherlock didn’t have many friends – or any friends, for that matter. He was always alone. Even during group work, none of the other students wanted to be paired with him. Not that John could really blame them, because Sherlock’s deductions could be cutting when he wanted them to be. There was nothing quite like having your deepest secrets be dragged out unexpectedly for the rest of the world to scrutinize. Getting close to him would require a fair amount of work on John’s part.

But he thought it might be worth it. There was a difference between being alone and being lonely, and he’d realized that Sherlock was both after only a couple of weeks. John could recognize loneliness because he was intimately familiar with it, saw the signs in Sherlock that he saw in the mirror every day. Even if he was letting his imagination run away with him and there was nothing wrong with Sherlock’s life at home, it couldn’t hurt to let the kid know that there was someone who actually gave a damn about him. 

He glanced up at Mike, finding that his friend was already smiling knowingly. In spite of himself John felt the corners of his own mouth twitch up in response. “Okay, you’re right,” he allowed. “Any ideas on how I’m supposed to do that, since you apparently have all the answers here?”

“You’ve never had any trouble making friends before, Three Continents Watson,” Mike said, smirking. “I don’t see why you would now.”

“I’m not trying to get him into bed,” John muttered, rolling his eyes again. Still, Mike had a point. And remembering the last faculty meeting, when the head science teacher had been complaining that Sherlock was constantly in the laboratory working on experiments without supervision, he thought that maybe he already knew where he needed to start.


	2. Chapter 2

Most people had a fierce dislike of Monday mornings, but John had never really been the sort of person who minded them. His flat was tiny, barely large enough for one person, and since he spent the majority of his weekend staring at the walls because he didn’t have a telly, at least going back to work was a change of peace. It was a break from the monotony that had been his life since he returned to London.

The students in his first few classes grumbled at the sight of their cheerful teacher but, accustomed to that sort of attitude by now, he paid them no mind and the morning went by quickly in spite of the fact that he probably spent more time watching the clock than the students. His last class right before lunch was the one he’d been waiting for. He looked on from behind his desk at the kids entered, offering each one a polite smile even as his eyes continually skipped back to the door.

Sherlock was the very last student to come in and right away John could tell that something was wrong. His shoulders were slumped, though he was tall enough that it wasn’t immediately noticeable, and his mouth was drawn into a thin line. He walked skirted his classmates, heading to the back of the room, and sat down very carefully at the desk closest to the windows. A muscle in his tensed jaw jumped when his backside made contact with his chair, but other than that he gave no impression of being in pain or discomfort.

John kept an eye on him while he started the class. Just as he’d expected, Sherlock said nothing the whole way through. He spent the entire class with his hands in his lap, staring blankly down at the wooden surface in front of him like it was the most fascinating surface in the world. He didn’t open a book or touch a pen to take notes. John didn’t call him out on it, though. He pretended that he was unaware of Sherlock’s disinterest, though when the bell rang to dismiss them for lunch he paused by Sherlock’s desk and quietly cleared his throat.

“I’d like a word with you, please. Please remain behind.”

It didn’t take long for the rest of the room to empty. John nodded to the last girl and closed the door behind her. Probably not the wisest decision, all things considered, but this was something he wanted privacy for. 

“Are you going to send another note home?”

The sound of Sherlock’s voice surprised him, though John took care to hide it as he turned around. “No. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

Sherlock was looking at him with wide, wary eyes. “Then what do you want?”

He thought about that as he walked back to his desk. Confronting Sherlock outright would be a poor choice at best and might even make him retreat entirely. He was a bit like a frightened animal that way. Fortunately he had a different plan in mind. He leaned down and opened one of his drawers, plucking a small unmarked jar out and holding it up. “I heard you run experiments after school. Are you for hire, by any chance?”

“It depends on what you want,” Sherlock said after a significant pause.

“Basically for you to just run a test on this.” John approached, keeping his other hand down by his waist, and carefully set the jar down on the desk. “One of my sister’s friends concocted this. I want to know what’s in it. It would be just like her to not care about something potentially harmful.” He smiled a little, not caring to broadcast that his heart was twisting the way it always did at any mention of Harry. Even after over ten years, it hadn’t got any easier.

Judging from the way Sherlock looked at him, he wasn’t doing a very good job of hiding it. “Why don’t you just ask the person who made it?”

“You really think she’d tell me who it was? I’m just an interfering little brother,” he replied, and God knew he’d heard that phrase yelled in his face often enough. “I’d need something concrete before I could approach her, but I don’t really have the money for an official test. Like I said, I heard from the science teacher that you do a lot of experiments. I thought you wouldn’t mind helping me out.”

“Okay,” Sherlock said finally, after a hesitation long enough to prove he’d given the matter serious consideration. He stood up and took the jar, sliding it into his bag. “You can come by the lab tomorrow after school. I should be able to tell you something then.”

“Great,” John said with his best smile, backing out of the way so that Sherlock would not need to brush by him on the way past. He hoped that once Sherlock realized what was in the jar, he would use it. Of course John was well aware of what it was: he’d paid a small fortune for it, but he thought it well worth the price. The balm it contained was one of the best he’d ever used in terms of soothing pain and helping to mend cuts and bruises. This little deception was the only way he could think of to get Sherlock to accept it.

Though he did his best not to dwell on it, John spent most of the night doing just that. The hours dragged by, especially because he didn’t see Sherlock in class. The boy was conspicuously absent and it made him worry right up until he knocked on the door of the lab that afternoon and stuck his head inside to see that Sherlock was there. He was bent over a foaming beaker, carefully adding a bright blue liquid to whatever was already inside. 

“I might not know a lot about lab safety procedures, but I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to be wearing goggles,” said John. He stepped inside, absently shutting the door, and added, “And gloves.”

“I’m pretty sure teachers aren’t supposed to get involved with the personal lives of their students, or lie to them for that matter,” Sherlock countered without ever looking up from his work. “I realize that you’re old, but even you must be capable of googling something that’s been on the market for years.”

John bristled. “I’m not old!” he exclaimed, genuinely insulted by the notion. “I’m only twenty-six.”

“Old,” Sherlock said, a hint of a smile playing around his mouth.

“I am not,” John muttered petulantly. He’d never once thought of twenty-six as old until he started working around teenagers. To be perfectly honest, they really _did_ make him feel old sometimes. They wielded their mobile phones and laptops with such precision and ease while he still floundered with trying to make a new post to that stupid blog his therapist had insisted he set up. 

He came a little closer, fascinated by the way the contents of the beaker slowly changed from a liquid into a solid. Sherlock picked it up and tipped it upside down, growling under his breath when nothing happened. He set the beaker back down and scrubbed his hands through his hair with a frustrated mutter, leaving the dark curls looking even more haphazard than normal. John had to hide a smile; he didn’t think Sherlock would appreciate knowing that he was adorable.

“Did you give me that to use?” Sherlock asked suddenly.

John blinked at him, surprised by the brazen question. “Yes, I did.”

“Why did you lie to me?”

“I didn’t think you would just take it if I offered,” he said honestly. Maybe that had been foolish. Sherlock could deduce so much with just a glance, he’d already proven that multiple times. He sighed and shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock muttered. “It… helped.”

“You used it?”

Sherlock shrank back just a little, almost imperceptible, and it was only because John was staring at him so intently that he saw. He added quickly, “Good. That’s what… I wanted you to use it. I don’t like seeing you in pain all the time.”

“My uncle favours a physical form of punishment,” Sherlock replied quietly. 

“That’s illegal.”

“I don’t really think he cares.”

“I care.”

The words slipped out before John could stop them and Sherlock looked shocked. John met his gaze for only a moment before he dropped his eyes, blushing deeply. He hadn’t meant to say that. 

“Why?”

“Why what?”

Sherlock shot him a look that strongly suggested he thought John was being an idiot.

“Oh. Right. I… I don’t know,” John admitted, a little troubled to realize that it was true. He liked all of his students, but Sherlock stood out to him and had from the very beginning. He wasn’t sure he would’ve noticed this about anyone else, but it was impossible _not_ to notice when he’d been watching Sherlock so closely all along. And then once he did know, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Couldn’t stop getting angry over the way no one else cared. 

He straightened up and really looked at the student standing across from him, taking in the circles under Sherlock’s eyes and the way he sat too stiffly on the stool. Not even the balm would be able to take all the sting out of whatever damage was hidden under his clothing. He wanted to say that it was just because he couldn’t stand by and let abuse happen, but although that was a part of it that wasn’t all of it. But he didn’t know how else to explain it because he couldn’t even identify it to himself.

“Let me guess,” Sherlock said when the silence had stretched past the point of being comfortable. “You want something in return.”

John exhaled a nervous breath. For a moment there he’d been terrified that Sherlock might’ve deduced everything about Harry. He wasn’t ready to talk about her with anyone. “No. No offence, but I’m pretty sure that you wouldn’t have anything I wanted even if I did.”

Much to his amazement, Sherlock scowled and stood up. “That’s not true. I can do lots of things.”

“Whoa,” John said, belatedly realizing his comment had been taken in the wrong way. He inwardly cursed himself. This was the first real progress he'd made and he was screwing it up. “That’s not what I meant. Believe me, I know how smart you are, Sherlock. You prove it almost every day. I just meant – I didn’t do this because I wanted you to do something for me.”

Sherlock was staring at him. His eyes were wide. “You… called me by my name.”

“Ah… yeah. Sorry.” John winced. Wow, he was really batting a thousand today. He’d got used to thinking of Sherlock as _Sherlock_ , not Holmes the way everyone else did.

“Don’t. It’s… it’s fine.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay…” He glanced around, searching for something to break the awkward silence. He spotted the beaker Sherlock had been fighting with. “So… what were you trying to do?”

A little flicker of surprise flashed across Sherlock’s face, but it was soon replaced with a small, if tentative, smile. He turned back to the table and began to explain. John leaned over and listened, content to just hear him talk even if he didn’t understand some of what was being said.


	3. Chapter 3

The staff room wasn’t exactly the nicest or most comfortable place in the school, and it had shit coffee, but it was better than spending his free time surrounded by students. Or at least, that was how John figured he was supposed to look at the situation. As he entered the room just after his last period class and strode over to the coffee machine, he didn’t think it was true: the lab with Sherlock as company was a hundred times better than this. And when he turned around after pouring himself a steaming cup, he was reminded of why.

“Something you need?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. He was effectively trapped against the rickety old table by the head science teacher, Mr Magnussen. It left him feeling crowded, mostly because Magnussen didn’t seem to be caught up on the concept of personal space, but fortunately not to the point where he felt like he needed to lash out in order to get a little bit of space. Of course, that was really dependent on what came out of Magnussen’s mouth in the next minute or so.

“You’ve been spending time with Holmes in the laboratory after school,” said Magnussen, somehow managing to make it sound like an accusation. 

John raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“What is he doing in there?”

“If you’d ever bother to ask, you would know,” John replied coolly, taking a sip of what the school claimed was coffee. He derived a lot more satisfaction from the way Magnussen sputtered than he did from the lukewarm sludge. 

“That laboratory is not meant for the use of students after hours!” Magnussen hissed once he had recovered. “There are dangerous chemicals that require supervision to be used. Not only that, but he could be doing anything in there and the school would be held liable if he’s breaking the law.”

“What the hell do you think he’s doing, cooking up drugs?” And as soon as he said it, John knew that was exactly what was going through Magnussen’s head. He rolled his eyes. “Considering that you’re the one who is supposed to be providing that supervision, you don’t really have a leg to stand on. Maybe you didn’t know at first and that’s his fault for sneaking in without permission, but now you _do_ know and instead of doing something about the situation the way you should have, you stood back and didn’t do anything. So if anyone is at risk of being sued, particularly if he manages to hurt himself, you are.”

He straightened up and not too lightly rapped his cane against Magnussen’s ankles, forcing the man to hop aside. “Fortunately for you, you no longer need to concern yourself. Not that it’s any of your business, but I have been spending time in there with him after school and I will continue to do so for the remainder of my time here. I went through med school, so I know more than enough about those chemicals to keep the school from being blown up. So don’t feel the need to suddenly make it your concern.”

He left Magnussen stammering behind him as he walked out, and it was only once he was out in the hall that John let himself scowl dangerously. There were certain things about this school that he loathed and a few of the teachers were a notable part of it. Because John knew now from experience that Sherlock was gifted with those very chemicals Magnussen didn’t want him to use. He may have been lying when he claimed he knew about them, but Sherlock wasn’t. 

Still, he was conscious of the fact that Magnussen wouldn’t see it that way – and when he came to the laboratory and saw Sherlock there, waiting, he said regretfully, “We probably shouldn’t today.”

Sherlock studied him for a few seconds before he pulled his gloves off. “You had a fight with Mr Magnussen and you’re worried that he’ll start monitoring us more closely.”

“Yes, but you in particular,” John said. He was getting used to this, to the way that Sherlock could deduce so much with only a glance. It was sort of nice not having to explain anything in much detail. Of course, it helped that Sherlock seemed to be going out of his way to keep from deducing anything too private. John didn't have much in his life that he wanted to hide, but what little he did want to keep to himself was extremely personal.

"I see." Sherlock paused briefly, then picked up the gloves. "That's fine, then."

"What? No, it's not. Sherlock, he could send another note home to your uncle." In a couple of steps John was close enough to gently tug the gloves out of Sherlock’s grasp. He set them down on a nearby table and crossed his arms. "I don't think it's a good idea for you to do any experiments today. But... if you're interested, we could go to this little cafe not too far from here and you could tell me about what you're planning for the future."

Sherlock's eyes widened a little and he just stared at John instead of responding, like he was so shocked John might be willing to be seen with him outside of the school that he wasn't sure how to respond. It took a lot of effort for John to keep from openly grimacing - being confronted with evidence that Sherlock had no friends whatsoever never got any easier - and instead schooled his expression into an easy smile. "As long as you don't mind being seen with an old teacher, that is." And he was pleased to see Sherlock's mouth quirk up ever so slightly at the reference to the joke.

"Or I could show you something," Sherlock said slowly. 

"Show me what?"

"I can't tell you."

"That doesn't sound at all ominous," John muttered, straightening up. Not that it really mattered. He wasn't about to say no, not after all the progress they were making: this was the first time that Sherlock had taken the initiative. More than that, thought, John was quickly becoming aware that this had started to be about more than just befriending a lonely, abused kid. Sherlock was genuinely interesting to spend time with, and it hadn't taken him long to realize that Sherlock could be a decent friend when he wanted to be. It was just that no one had ever shown him how. 

"Don't be a coward," Sherlock said, his smile quick and mischievous as he grabbed his bag and walked out.

"Hey, you can call me a lot of things but coward isn't one of them. I come here every day, don't I?" John followed him out of the room and fell into step beside Sherlock as they made their way out of the school. Normally it bothered him when someone modulated their pace so that he could keep up, but Sherlock did it so naturally that they'd gone almost three blocks before it dawned on him that they were travelling at a pace he could maintain easily.

The conversation between them was smooth and light as Sherlock launched into a story about the first time his parents had purchased a chemistry set for him and his brother, something that John cherished. It hadn't taken long for Sherlock to open up a little, and sometimes it was hard to believe that they'd only been meeting after school for a couple of weeks. He watched Sherlock's animated face and smiled to himself as Sherlock gestured with his hands to indicate how large an explosion had been.

"Does your brother live with you?" he asked once Sherlock had trailed to a stop.

Sherlock seemed to be surprised by the question. "No. Mycroft works for the government. Well, I say works. More like he _is_ the government, though he makes sure no one else actually realizes that."

"He is the government?" John repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"My family is very ambitious," came the dry reply. "Before they died, my father was well on his way to becoming one of the best spies that the British nation has ever seen. And my mother, well, I'm not allowed to tell you much about her, but let's just say the Queen wouldn't be here if it weren't for her."

John stared at him. "Seriously?" Suddenly he was getting an inkling as to why Sherlock had never bothered to go to the police with his injuries. If his family was as well connected as they said... it wouldn't have been the first time that John had watched an abuser get away with their awful actions because of money or influence. He’d witnessed that kind of scene more than once while he was in med school. Somehow it was even more horrifying now that he knew someone who was experiencing it firsthand.

"Yes, seriously. I'm expected to follow in their prestigious footsteps."

"I don't really see you going into the government," John said honestly, and Sherlock smirked as he turned abruptly and entered a building. John followed automatically.

"I have no interest in anything of the sort, believe me. It bothered my parents to no end, and even now my brother insists that I should rethink my future." Sherlock sighed and took out a set of keys. He slotted one into the lock and turned it. "My uncle, though, he doesn't care one way or another what I do with my time or my future unless it begins to infringe on his reputation."

Which was another reason why Sherlock had never tried to attract attention, John guessed. He blinked and stopped, staring at the flat he'd just entered. "Hang on, is there where you live?"

"Yes, John," Sherlock said patiently, rolling his eyes.

Oh god, he'd gone _home_ with a _student_. That was crossing so many lines John didn't know where to begin. He floundered in the doorway while Sherlock removed his coat and shoes, torn between staying to satisfy his curiosity about where Sherlock lived and leaving immediately. He watched Sherlock walk into another room and hesitated for only a moment before kicking his shoes off to follow. He was already there, so it probably wouldn't matter if he stayed for a couple of minutes.

Sherlock had gone down the hall, and John experienced a sinking sensation as he realized he was about to enter a student's bedroom. All of that fled his mind, however, when he got a good look at the walls. 

"Is that..."

"Criminals? Yes." Sherlock wore a satisfied smile, his eyes lit up in a way John had never seen before. "This is what I do in my spare time. I keep myself up to date on the cases that the police are struggling to solve. Most of the time I figure it out before they do, and then I text them the answer." He fiddled with the hem of his shirt and cleared his throat, looking a little embarrassed. It was adorable. He was so clearly expecting John to make a cruel or derisive comment, but he’d brought John here anyway.

"That's amazing," John said firmly, relishing the brief look of shock he received in return. Sherlock didn't get nearly enough praise. "You're amazing, Sherlock. God, you're just a kid and you're helping to solve crimes?"

"I'm nearly eighteen. I'm not a kid," Sherlock said.

"You're a kid, and you're fantastic," John told him, his mind struggling to take it all in. The pictures, the carefully designed graphs, the notes... The sheer level of details was astounding. How could one person be capable of so much? He turned to look at Sherlock, hoping that his awe would show. 

It must have, because Sherlock was blushing. "Do you want to see what I'm working on right now?"

John didn't hesitate. All thoughts of leaving because this was a student were long gone. "God yes."


	4. Chapter 4

Word about the fight spread fast through the school, but not fast enough for John to do anything about it considering that at the time he wasn’t even in the building. He’d been asked to act as a chaperone for a couple of classes that were going on a day trip, and when he found out that the other teacher had requested his help specifically he’d agreed, more than a little flattered. The fact that they ended up going to St Bart’s was just a bonus, if only because it meant he got to poke fun at Mike a couple of times during the initial tour.

They arrived back at the school after hours and the students dispersed pretty quickly, like they were afraid there might be some last minute homework handed out if they stuck around. John didn’t mind. It meant he got to spend a little extra time with Jeanette Chaplin, a ridiculously pretty teacher with a shy smile and a sweet disposition. She was the first woman that he really felt comfortable chatting with since he’d returned home. Part of that, he knew, was because Jeanette didn’t ask questions about the war or his injury. 

As they walked inside, the conversation between them light and easy, he wondered if she would be receptive to going out on a date. They were roughly the same age, and he hadn’t been away from the dating game for so long that he couldn’t recognize when a woman was interested: Jeanette had been touching him frequently, letting her hand linger on his shoulder or arm, and there was something inviting about the smile she seemed to wear only for John.

He cleared his throat. It had been a long time since he’d had to ask someone out, and he felt the beginning flutter of nerves pulling tight around his belly. Jeanette looked at him expectantly and he gave her an awkward smile. “Do you… are you interested in going for a coffee?”

“I’d love to,” she said, the response so quick that John relaxed. “Just let me grab some things from my office and I’ll meet you out front. I know this great little café and it’s only about a block away.”

“Great,” John said, pausing by the door of his own, temporary office. She kept walking and he couldn’t help watching her go, his eyes dropping to linger on the curve of her behind. Yes… he definitely wanted to have coffee with her. He pushed the door open and entered, humming to himself, a little disappointed to see that Sherlock wasn’t waiting for him. Not that he’d really thought Sherlock would, and considering that he now had a date it was probably for the best that he hadn’t.

John collected what little he needed for the night and met up with Jeanette out front. They walked to the café and found a seat, ordering drinks and some delicate pastries. He’d just bitten into a particularly plump éclair when Jeannette said, “So did you hear about the fight about today?”

“Fight? I thought the kids weren’t that bad.”

“Not our kids, at the school.”

“Oh. No, I didn’t.” He wiped his mouth, a little disappointed that she was choosing to talk about school, but willing to go with it for the moment. “What happened?”

“Apparently that Holmes kid got into it with Wilkes.”

Choking on hot tea was really unpleasant, John discovered. He set his cup down fast and straightened up. “Sebastian Wilkes?” he demanded, because God he hoped not. Wilkes was the kind of kid who thought he lived at the top of the chain, who went out of his way to mock other students whenever he thought he could get away with it, and rarely received any flack for it because he was both tall and muscular and his parents had plenty of money. John pictured him against thin, lanky Sherlock and felt sick.

Jeannette nodded. “I guess it was quite the fight. They had to pull Wilkes off him, but of course Holmes was the one who started it according to the kids who witnessed it. Maybe it’ll finally be enough to get him expelled him.” She blew gently on her coffee and sipped at it, oblivious to the rising tension. 

“Why should Sherlock be the one to get expelled?” John demanded.

“Oh come on, John. You must know what he’s like. He’s in your class, isn’t he? I mean, I’ve never had the pleasure of teaching him but a couple of my friends have and they say he’s awful.” She shook her head. “Doesn’t listen to what they say, never turns work in, late on a regular basis when he bothers to show up, back talks at every opportunity, gets into fights with the other kids constantly… The only reason he’s even still at the school is because his uncle has so much money.”

“Did you ever stop to think that maybe there’s a reason he acts that way?”

“Like what?” Jeannette asked, frowning. She must have realized what he meant from the look on his face, because she sighed and rolled her eyes. “John, honey, you’re new to this teaching thing so let me tell you a secret. Not all kids who act out are being abused at home. It’s nice to think that there’s always a reason for it, but what it comes down to is that kids are exactly like adults; you’ve got good ones and bad ones. Holmes just happens to be the latter.”

“And it never occurred to you or anyone else that maybe he _is_ being abused?” John asked coldly.

Jeannette set her coffee down and sat up, looking at him closely. “Do you have reason to believe that he is?” 

From the way she said it, it sounded like she might have actually tried to do something if he’d told her everything. But John didn’t even want to bother trying to explain. What he’d learned about Sherlock was private and he shouldn’t even have pushed it this far. “No. I guess I just don’t have the same trouble with him that everyone else,” he said finally. 

She looked at him for a moment longer before nodding. “Okay.”

Though they moved on, the talk to less troubled waters, the mood never quite felt the same and John was relieved when she finally made an excuse to leave. He returned to his flat and spent a restless night thinking about Sherlock and the note that must have gone home with him for getting into another fight. Around 3am he gave up on trying to sleep and just got up, wasting the minutes away on useless stuff until he could leave. He got to the school an hour early and went straight to the laboratory, not sure about what he would see.

Sherlock was there. John paused in the doorway, surprised by the swell of pure _relief_ that rolled through him. Not that it was overly surprising – it hadn’t taken John long to realize that Sherlock often used the lab before school as well, particularly on the days when his uncle was around – but some part of him had half expected that Jeannette would be right and this was the incident that ended with Sherlock’s expulsion. And for some reason John couldn’t identify, the thought of no longer seeing Sherlock on a daily basis bothered him deeply.

He was slow in his approach, deliberately making noise so that Sherlock would know he was there. Still, Sherlock did not acknowledge him until John was standing right beside him. And even then he lifted his head with clear reluctance. John barely swallowed a gasp at the sight of his face. His right eye was badly bruised, the flesh swollen red and purple halfway down his cheek, and his bottom lip was split. Automatically he reached out to touch, wanting to assess, and Sherlock froze halfway through jerking away and instead went very still.

“Was this from Wilkes?” John whispered, because as much as he didn’t want to know he needed to.

“Yes.”

“God, he’s got quite the punch on him.” 

“He doesn’t have as much force as my uncle,” Sherlock said. It was meant as a light-hearted comment, no doubt, but there was nothing light about the reminder that Sherlock had been beaten. It was John’s turn to freeze, his stomach twisting, and he gentled the movement of his thumb across the cut on Sherlock’s mouth. 

He took a deep breath. “Will you let me see?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed a little. “Why?”

“I think I can help.” And John had to see, he had to _know_ what was happening, had been happening right underneath their noses all this time. He felt Sherlock’s slow nod like a blow to the belly, forcing himself to step back and walk out, to give Sherlock the opportunity to decide for certain without feeling like he was being judged.  
Much to his relief, Sherlock followed.

With the office door closed behind them and the blinds drawn for privacy, Sherlock seemed to have no qualms about undressing. Before John had the chance to look away, Sherlock was turning around and pushing his trousers and underwear down without hesitation. The worst of the damage was immediately visible, a swollen mess of reddened and purpled flesh that stretched down to the backs of his knees and up underneath his shirt. Here and there the blows had broken skin, and although there was no blood the cuts looked sore and raw.

John couldn’t speak. His throat was working but nothing was coming out. His ability to talk had been replaced by rage and disgust. He’d seen this kind of harm before, though admittedly never to that degree, and he knew the cause was a cane that had a lot of power behind it. He shifted a step closer, exhaling through the urge to track Sherlock’s uncle down and beat him bloody. 

“Did the salve help?” he rasped finally.

“A little.”

A little wasn’t enough, but John’s hands itched to do _something_. He fetched a new jar from his desk and dipped his fingers inside, carefully smoothing it across Sherlock’s lower back. Sherlock stiffened at the initial touch and John paused, wondering if he had crossed a line – but then Sherlock relaxed, so quickly that he had to brace himself against the wall. John ran his eyes up the curve of his back, noting the lack of tension, before he continued, rubbing the salve in as much as he dared while keeping his touch as light as possible.

“This isn’t right,” he muttered, letting his hand move lower. He might have felt weird, wrong, about touching a student’s naked backside, but he couldn’t. Not when Sherlock looked like this. He kept working in silence, covering every inch of the bruised flesh, his jaw clenched in anger until finally he had to add, “You don’t deserve this. You know that, don’t you? You’re a good boy.”

Sherlock gasped softly, strangled and shocked, and turned around quickly. John’s hand dropped away instantly and he snapped his eyes up to safer territory, though not without getting a glimpse of unmarked flesh. Sherlock was staring at him with wide eyes. 

“You don’t know that,” John said softly, understanding the prolonged silence, and Christ he’d never wanted to kill a man as badly as he did Sherlock’s uncle. He shook his head, catching sight of a few more bruises on Sherlock’s wrists. Bruises that looked suspiciously like handprints. He reached for Sherlock’s hand.

“No, wait –” Sherlock began uselessly, but it was too late. John had already seen. He stared down at the familiar marks in stunned silence.

“These are track marks,” he said. “You… you use _drugs_?”

John didn’t mean for it to come out like that. So harsh, judging. But it did, and he regretted it instantly just seeing the way Sherlock’s expression closed up. In one swift move Sherlock jerked free and stooped to grab his pants, hitching them up so he could walk. He pushed his way out of the office without even bothering to pull them up all the way. John just stood there and watched him go, frozen, and by the time he came to his senses and went after him Sherlock was already gone.


	5. Chapter 5

When Sherlock didn’t show up at school the next day, John tried hard not to worry. He told himself that there were lots of reasons that kids missed school, that Sherlock’s injuries were certainly bad enough to warrant a couple of days of rest. Had it been anyone else, he might’ve actually believed it. But this was Sherlock, who had been dealing with this level of pain for god only knew how long, and he knew better than to think that Sherlock was at home relaxing or sleeping where he should be.

By the time the weekend hit and Sherlock still hadn’t shown up, he was worked up enough to risk a visit to Sherlock’s home. There was no answer when he knocked, not that he was surprised. Even if Sherlock was home, he didn’t think the chances were high that Sherlock would open the door for him. The problem was that he was pretty sure Sherlock wasn’t inside, and worse yet that no one had been for at least a couple of days now. He stared at the door in frustrated silence for several minutes.

How were you supposed to find someone who didn’t want to be found, especially a brilliant kid like Sherlock? John couldn’t remember him talking about anywhere else that he spent his time other than home and school. He didn’t have any friends, and he held only disdain for the brother he mentioned as little as possible. The thought of him confiding in his uncle was laughable. Short of roaming the streets looking for him, the only thing John could think of was filing a missing person’s report – and he wasn’t sure whether that would even be taken seriously, coming from a teacher about a seventeen-year-old.

The police, though… now there was an idea. He turned away from the door and left the building, hurrying up the pavement. Sherlock’s obsession with crime was well documented by now. John had heard more details about the criminals in London in the past few weeks than most people heard in their lifetime, and Sherlock had admitted to him once that he’d missed several days of school during particularly high profile cases that he felt needed his attention more. If there was any hope of finding him, it would be at a crime scene.

He found his way to a newsstand and checked out the headlines. There was always something happening in London; the real question would be which case was enough to catch Sherlock’s interest. Just at a glance, a young woman had been attacked and raped in the park, two recent burglaries, and – John smiled, just a little, when his eyes caught on the front page news about a murder that had taken place two days ago. Nothing Sherlock Holmes loved more than a good murder.

Catching a cab downtown was easy, getting close to the scene was another matter altogether. The police were still investigating the building, and anyone who tried to get inside was heavily screened. He suspected that an army veteran slash teacher would not be found acceptable, but he had to wonder if a teenaged consulting detective would be. Sherlock had made it sound like he kept his distance from the crime scenes and didn’t interact with police in person, but John knew him better than that. He was positive Sherlock had visited more than one scene, probably repeatedly, and it was a toss-up as to whether the police ever knew he was there.

Well, if he couldn’t get in he could certainly wait. It was better than sitting at home, repeatedly dialling Sherlock’s number and getting no answer. He sat down on the nearest bench, leaning his cane beside him, and just watched. Nothing happened for about two and a half hours. But then the glass doors opened and a man and a woman came out. They were deep in conversation. Or rather, it looked like the woman was giving the man a hard time judging by the way she was gesturing fiercely. 

They stopped far enough away that John couldn’t hear what they were saying. A couple of times the man glanced around with a pleading expression, like he was hoping someone would rescue him, but the few officers lingering near the building carefully did not make eye contact. It was kind of amusing, and had John been a little less worried he might have chuckled. He’d been caught like that by a few colleagues in his time and it was never fun. When the guy looked at him, he offered a brief, sympathetic smile.

The man blinked at him, frowned, and then took out his phone. John jumped, surprised when _his_ phone started to ring. No sooner had he dug it out of his pocket than the man was standing over him. “John? John Watson? I thought I recognized you.”

“Who are you?” John asked, a little confused. He hadn’t had an encounter with the police in years, not since he was young enough to be talked into doing stupid shit by his equally stupid friends. 

“Detective Inspector Lestrade.” Lestrade offered a hand and John stood up, taking it automatically. He had a good, firm shake, but not so tight that it seemed like he was trying to prove a point the way some guys did. “You may not know me, but I’ve learned more about you during the past couple of days than I ever wanted to.” He had a wry smile on his face. “And that was _after_ I performed a detailed background check.”

“What?” John said. “ _Why_?”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade said simply, like he was surprised that John even had to ask.

“You… wait, what, Sherlock?”

“He’s been hiding out at my flat and driving me insane at the same time. Little brat,” Lestrade muttered, though the fond smile on his face suggested he wasn’t as upset as he let on. 

“You’re a detective inspector, and you _know_ Sherlock?” John said, still trying to wrap his mind around this development. He didn’t really mean it the way it came out. It sounded more like an accusation than anything, and Lestrade’s face visibly tightened. But he didn’t get angry. Instead, he gave John a thoughtful look.

“I’m done for the day, heading home. Why don’t you join me? I think we need to talk.”

John agreed, if only because he was desperate to see Sherlock again and apologize, and followed Lestrade to his car. “He’s okay, isn’t he?”

“He’s fine. Driving me crazy, like I said, but then that’s nothing new. He was waiting for me when I got home a few days ago. Picked my locks and fell asleep on the sofa.” Lestrade sighed and rolled his eyes before he began to explain. “He’s been helping me out on cases for a while now. Usually I make it a point not to meet up with him or even talk to him on the phone. It wouldn’t look right if anyone found out my source is a seventeen-year-old kid. Frankly, I’m not even sure how he found out where my flat is.”

“It’s Sherlock,” John said, figuring that was explanation enough. 

“Yeah. Anyway, a while ago he started talking about this teacher at his school who’d developed an interest in him. You, obviously. So I did some research into your background. Just to make sure you didn’t have any weird ideas.” Lestrade glanced at him before returning his gaze to the road. “You seemed like an okay guy, and Sherlock’s… Well, I don’t know how else to say it but he seems really fascinated by you. Until you pissed him off, anyway.”

“I didn’t mean to,” John muttered, and Lestrade laughed.

“I never mean to either. It happens more easily than you think. He’s like a peacock that way, vain as anything but gets his feathers ruffled if you so much as look at him wrong.”

The way Lestrade talked about Sherlock was surprising. He didn’t sound like he thought Sherlock was annoying or a pest, and yet Sherlock had never once alluded to the fact that he had a friend on the police force. John had to wonder why. Even if they only contacted each other by text or email, Sherlock had gone to Lestrade when he needed help. That had to mean something. He squashed the uncomfortable thought that he might not have made such a point of approaching Sherlock had he known.

“I found out he was using drugs,” he said.

Lestrade tensed a little. “I’ve fought with him about that once or twice,” he admitted quietly. “Sherlock won’t listen to me. He claims it’s just recreational. For a kid as smart as him, he doesn’t seem to understand the slippery slope he’s on. Maybe you’ll be able to make him understand.” He pulled over, stopping the car, and just sat there for a moment. “He needs someone. Badly.”

John glanced at him. “But you…”

“I’m not enough. There’s certain things… I’m still part of the police and Sherlock won’t ever forget that.” Though he smiled, it was clear that this bothered him. “You’re different. He let you in more in less than a month then he has since we met. For Sherlock, that’s a lot. Don’t fuck this up, Watson.”

Having said that, Lestrade opened his door and got out. John followed slowly, thinking about all the things he’d just heard – and, more importantly, about what _hadn’t_ been said. He had the feeling that Sherlock had never admitted his uncle’s abuse to the detective, even though he suspected Lestrade still knew. And without proof, Lestrade would’ve been helpless to do anything about it, especially if he and Sherlock rarely spoke in person. No wonder Sherlock had been trying to keep him at arm’s length, hadn’t mentioned him to John.

Sherlock was sprawled on Lestrade’s sofa when they walked in. It was obvious he wasn’t expecting to see John. The look of shock on his face would’ve been funny in any other situation. As it was, John was torn between shaking him silly or hugging him. 

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock demanded, sitting up fast.

“He’s here to take you home,” said Lestrade.

“What?” Sherlock and John said together.

Lestrade did a poor job of hiding his smirk. “Sherlock, you can’t stay here. Not only is my flat not big enough for the both of us, if someone finds out you’re living here it could get me into trouble.”

“Yes, and heaven forbid your precious promotion be endangered,” Sherlock sneered.

“In case you forgot,” Lestrade said sharply, “it’s that precious promotion which gets _you_ access to cases any sane person would keep you away from.” He stared at Sherlock hard until Sherlock looked away. Then he visibly softened. “It’s not that I don’t want you here. But God, Sherlock, you and I both know you’ll be a lot happier with John.” 

Apparently John didn’t get a say in this, because now that it was out in the open he couldn’t exactly say he hadn’t come here with the intention of bringing Sherlock back to his home. He had to ask. “You’re… not going back home, are you?”

“No,” Sherlock said quietly. His shoulders hunched a little. “I’m not.”

Right. It wasn’t like John was going to argue against that decision. He squared his shoulders. “Come on, then.”

Sherlock looked from Lestrade to him. “You’re serious.”

“Yes, I am.” In fact, the more John thought about it the more he liked the idea. It would give Sherlock a safe place to stay away from his uncle and John would always know where he was. There would be no more impossible nights spent wondering if Sherlock was being beaten or worse. “Get your coat and lets go.”

For a moment it seemed like Sherlock was going to argue. But he didn’t. He got up and walked out. As soon as he was gone, Lestrade said – in a voice that was casually pleasant – “if you take advantage of him, you’ll regret it.”

“Are you threatening me?” John asked, raising an eyebrow.

Lestrade just chuckled. “Believe me, Watson,” he said with a grin. “ _I’m_ not the one you should be concerned about.”


	6. Chapter 6

Having Sherlock around in the flat all the time was both easier and harder than John had anticipated. The flat was a little small for the both of them, but Sherlock – when he deigned to sleep – didn’t seem to mind crashing on the sofa. He didn’t eat much considering that he was a growing teenager, and he understood without John having to come right out and say so that they couldn’t be seen heading to the school together. Every morning, Sherlock would gather his things and leave a good fifteen to twenty minutes before John was even out of the shower.

So long as John discounted the fact that his sitting room had been taken over by photographs of bodies and files about crime scenes and books about every random topic known to man and the occasional experiment that threatened to blow the flat up, all organized into a bizarre filing system he couldn’t make heads or tails of, it wasn’t really that bad. He’d definitely shared with worse people back in uni; Sherlock didn’t hold a candle to his old flatmate who used to throw orgies and demand that John join in.

What he did mind was Sherlock’s tendency to strut around the flat barely clothed, whether it was in an absurdly small towel or a dressing gown. At first the sight of Sherlock half naked or worse didn’t do much more than incite rage in him. He couldn’t stop himself from categorizing the bruises and angry, swollen red marks that littered Sherlock’s legs, thighs, stomach, back and shoulders, wondering what instrument had left them there and why. He could pick out lashes from a cane, deep lines from a whip, large bruises from a blunt object that might be a paddle, and each time he’d have to leave the room to avoid tracking Sherlock’s uncle down and beating the man raw.

There were just so many. More than he had expected. He seemed to see new ones each time he looked at Sherlock. Some were faded into thin white lines, just barely visible against the dip of Sherlock’s shoulder blades, and those were the worst, because it meant that they’d been bad enough to scar. And that bothered John a lot. He couldn’t help thinking that Sherlock was too young to bear those kinds of scars, and it made him wonder about the scars that couldn’t be seen.

He told himself that was why he freaked out so badly the first time he caught his eyes lingering on Sherlock’s flat belly and pink nipples a couple of weeks after Sherlock moved in. Sherlock was reclining on the sofa, tossing comments at the telly, and he was only dressed in boxers and that ridiculous dressing robe which gaped open in the front. John was on his laptop, slowly pecking out a lesson plan for the next week, but at some point he’d got distracted and now he was openly ogling one of his students. He wouldn’t have noticed at all but for the shiver that passed through Sherlock, leaving gooseflesh pebbled across his chest.

John jerked his eyes away, horrified, and stared at the screen of his computer for several seconds before he managed to remember how to speak. “Cold?” he asked hoarsely, a little mortified when his voice came out so _raw_. It certainly didn’t sound like all he was doing was sitting at his table working.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock said lazily, rubbing a hand along his ribs. The sight of those long, pale fingers skating over his nipples and the resulting bolt of arousal that shot through John was too much. He jumped up and grabbed his coat, was out of the flat before Sherlock had recovered from his surprise enough to ask where John was going. And thank god for that, because John didn’t even want to entertain the notion that Sherlock might have already deduced it.

He ended up in the park on one of the benches he used to frequent before Mike had found him the job at the school. His heart was pounding like he’d just run half a dozen blocks instead of walked for less than five minutes, but it had nothing to do with physical exertion. He’d never noticed himself staring at Sherlock before. Well, he had, but it was always for purely medical reasons – cataloguing wounds, seeing how they were healing, making sure there were no infections because he no longer trusted Sherlock to just tell him when something was wrong.

When had that changed? When had it changed from innocent to something… _worse_? He dropped his head into his hands and jolted when an image of soft, bare skin flashed in front of his closed eyes. There were no wounds on Sherlock’s chest. No sane, non-perverted reason for him to be staring like Sherlock was a private buffet set out just for him. And the fact that he could picture that expanse of flesh so easily suggested that he’d done it more than once without even realizing. How long had he been eyeing a seventeen-year-old up like a creeper?

Christ. John was no stranger to the idea of sleeping with a man, though admittedly it had taken him a damn long time to come to terms with that part of him after Harry. He’d even succumbed, once or twice, to the curiosity while he was in uni and overseas. Particularly in Afghanistan, when the rest of the world was falling apart, he’d refused to see any shame or disgust in finding comfort with another human being regardless of whether it was a man or woman.

But this was different. This was Sherlock, who needed someone on his side that wouldn’t take advantage of him, and John couldn’t screw that up. It was one thing to do it and not even be aware of it, but now that he did know… he would have to be more cautious. Careful. Maybe see about insisting that Sherlock wear a little more clothing for propriety’s sake, since his initial excuse of how much it hurt when the clothing rubbed up against his wounds was pretty much invalid by now. 

The other option was, of course, asking Sherlock to leave, but John couldn’t do that. Sherlock didn’t have anywhere else to go. As far as John knew he hadn’t even been in contact with his uncle since he'd left, and the fact that no police had come knocking on John’s door spoke volumes about how much Sherlock’s uncle cared about where his nephew was. A way to work off frustration when he was underfoot and out of sight, out of mind when he wasn’t. 

John gritted his teeth at the renewed surge of anger and breathed through it, finally climbing awkwardly to his feet. His bad leg burned with pain deep in his thigh and he realized for the first time that he’d been so intent on getting away that he’d forgotten his cane. It was a blessing in disguise despite the pain, because the slow walk back to the flat gave him more time to think, to get himself under control. This was no different from any other time in his life when he’d been attracted to someone in a situation where it wouldn’t work out; God knew John had seen _that_ happen a fair few times. 

Sherlock was still preoccupied with the telly when John walked in, much to his relief. It gave him the chance to call for a take away and have a shower – where he pointedly did not touch himself to thoughts of anyone – and by the time he sat down in his chair with some food, he was feeling a little better about the whole situation. So he was attracted to Sherlock. So what? As long as he didn’t actually do anything about it, he wasn’t hurting anyone and no one had to know. He could keep this to himself and, given time, it would probably fade away.

He was confident about that right up until he woke up the next morning to find his boxers messy in a way they hadn’t been since he was sixteen and went off at the slightest provocation. His mind was spinning with lurid images of Sherlock: of those plush lips wrapped around his cock, of that body arched beneath him in pleasure, of nibbling on that slender neck. His hands itched with the memory of sliding through phantom curls, and he groaned and dug his fists into his eyes like he could drag it all out.

“Fucking. Hell,” he muttered, because now that his mind had acknowledged this whole mess it was apparently open season on everything he’d been denying himself before. He couldn’t remember the dream in precise detail, and wasn’t that a shame, but the fleeting images were enough to make the back of his neck hot. How was he supposed to look Sherlock in the face?

It took a while for him to drag himself out of bed and get dressed. Much to his surprise, Sherlock was sitting at the table when he came out. Not only that, but he was fully dressed as well in a shirt and jeans. John stared at him for a moment, eyebrows raised, and when Sherlock cocked his head he said, “I was beginning to think you didn’t have any clothes.”

“Cute,” Sherlock said, setting his phone down. “Lestrade called me and asked me to meet him at a crime scene.” He sounded unusually nervous, and John cast another look at him as he pulled the bread out.

“You don’t want to?” he asked, firmly pushing away the thought that an anxious Sherlock was kind of cute. 

“The first time I showed up at a crime scene he told me if I ever came back to one, he’d change his number and ignore all of my texts,” Sherlock said wryly. “And you heard him. He doesn’t want to run the risk of his superiors finding out about me. He thinks they might have an issue with the fact that I’m so young.”

“I could see that. So why ask you to come by, then?”

Sherlock shrugged. He was fiddling with his phone like he didn’t know what else to do with his hands and the twitchy, edgy fumbling hurt to watch. John sat down across from him while he waited for the water to boil and stupidly reached across the table to put his hand on top of Sherlock’s. It was the sort of casual thing he would’ve done without thinking twice before he’d realized what it all meant: a supposedly innocent gesture meant as comfort towards a child. Only now he couldn’t see Sherlock as anything but a man, not a child at all, and his stomach twisted up tight.

Under the gentle pressure, though, Sherlock relaxed a little. “There’s a serial rapist travelling around London and I can only see so much from the pictures Lestrade sends me. I need to… to _be_ there. And he must realize that, because he offered.”

“If he offered, then I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” John said quietly. “Lestrade knows how intelligent you are. He knows that you can do this.” He dropped his gaze to Sherlock’s arm, to the track marks he knew were hidden there. It was the one part of himself Sherlock consistently covered, like he thought that if John couldn’t see them he might forget that they were there. It was the elephant in the room they had yet to discuss.

“Right,” Sherlock said, and tugged his hands away. He stood up fast. “I should go.”

“Okay,” John said, a little surprised by the abrupt departure. Watching Sherlock go, he had the distinct sense that he might have said or done something wrong. He just wasn’t wholly sure what.


	7. Chapter 7

People were looking at John strangely. That was the first thing that he noticed as he made his way into the school. He was used to getting weird looks, of course, because it was unusual to see a man in his late twenties who needed the help of a cane to get around. But he’d been at the school long enough to have become a familiar sight, which meant that something else was going on. He couldn’t help the thin prickle of unease he felt when one of the other professors gave him an openly disapproving look before walking away in a huff.

He paused just inside the front door, noting all the faces that turned away when he glanced in their direction, before heading for his office, deciding that he’d drop off his things before he went to the lounge to see if he could figure out what was going on. Gossip travelled fast in a place like this, and if it was interesting enough to get people buzzing at just after eight in the morning then it wouldn’t be too hard to convince someone to let him in on it. As it turned out, though, the news ended up coming to him.

Jeanette was waiting for him around the corner, just down the hall from his office. Her lips were pressed into a thin, angry line and her arms were folded, drawing the thin purple blouse she was wearing against her breasts in a _very_ nice way. John didn’t let his eyes linger, sensing that she was too upset to warrant any staring at the moment. And, sure enough, he didn’t even get a greeting out before she snapped, “Is it true, John?”

“Is what true?” John asked as calmly as possible, his sense of unease growing. Obviously the rumour was about him in some way. He just hoped that it didn’t involve Sherlock. But as he surveyed the look of hurt and confusion on her face, he didn’t think that was likely.

“You and that boy. Are you dating?”

“ _What?_ ” John squinted at her incredulously, wondering if he had heard right.

“Doctor Watson, I’d like to see you in my office.” Dee Smith, the headmaster, interrupted before Jeanette could say anything else. John kept looking at her, wanting to explain, but Jeanette turned on her heel and flounced away. He set his jaw with frustration and fell into behind Smith, still wearing his jacket and carrying his briefcase.

He half-expected to see Sherlock in the room as well, but there was no sign of him. He wasn’t sure whether to be relieved about that or not. “Ma’am, I’d like to explain –”

“Sit down,” Smith said briskly, taking a seat behind her desk. She waited until John had done as he was told before she leaned forward. “I understand that you are not used to being in a teaching environment, Watson. Just like I understand that some of the older students are attractive and that, considering you’re still young, you may see yourself as being on the same level as them.”

“That’s not –”

She held up a stern hand to silence him. “Sherlock Holmes is over the age of sixteen, so there are no legal issues when it comes to him living in your house. Therefore there is no reason for me to get the police involved. Morally, however, I cannot in good faith allow one of my teachers to have a seventeen-year-old student living with them.”

“We’re not dating!” John exclaimed, the tips of his ears burning. A little flicker of hot guilt wormed its way up through his chest because even though it was truth, it wasn’t what he really wanted. He’d had so many dreams about Sherlock during the past couple of weeks that his water bill was getting horrendous from washing his sheets all the time.

“I believe you,” she said, much to John’s surprise. “And believe me, I hate to do this. You’ve managed to connect with the kids in a way that most people can’t. You’re a good teacher, so I wish that the situation could be different. Unfortunately, I doubt that concerned parents will be willing to take your word on the subject when they start calling my office because their children have told them that a teacher is living with a student. They’re going to wonder, Watson, and ultimately the bottom line is that it casts the school in a certain light that I really can’t have.”

John’s ears were ringing. His throat felt tight, blocked up against all of the words that wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference. Somehow he’d never really considered what might happen if someone figured out he and Sherlock were living together. He wasn’t sure why. God knew Lestrade hadn’t taken him in for just that reason: he was concerned about how it might look to Scotland Yard when word got out. 

He could’ve explained why Sherlock was living with him, but looking at Smith’s face he knew no amount of reasoning would serve to change her mind. Her primary concern was the school’s reputation and he really couldn't blame her for that. He swallowed hard. “I get it,” he said stiffly. There was no use in throwing a tantrum, not when the writing was on the wall.

“I’m sorry,” Smith said, and she sounded like she really meant it. 

“So am I,” he said with a bitter smile.

“You have until Friday to collect the rest of your things,” she added. “It… might be for the best if you contact me before you come by. I can stay after hours and let you in.”

Which meant she didn’t even want him in the school anymore, or at least not when there were students around. His face grew hot with a humiliated flush. He felt like telling her that he would never harm a child, that he was in fact protecting one, but at this point the only way to save himself and his job would be to drag everything about Sherlock out into the open. And John couldn’t do that. It was bad enough he’d mentioned it even briefly to Jeanette. That wasn’t his story to tell.

Without another word he got up and walked out, not even attempting to be professional anymore. The halls were quiet now that classes were in session, and his footsteps echoed as he numbly headed down to the doors and walked out for the last time. The one saving grace about the whole miserable experience of being fired was that no one was watching as he took a right just outside, walked for a couple of blocks and then swerved into the first pub that he laid his eyes on.

Alcohol had never done that much for him, not after Harry. John didn’t usually see the appeal of spending a fortune on beer, tempting though it sometimes was to forget all his troubles. But right then he couldn’t bear the thought of going back to his empty flat, and it wasn’t like he had any friends that he could seek solace in. At least the pub was a change of pace, and even on a weekday morning there were a few other people around. It was a distraction that he sorely needed. John took a seat in the corner and ordered a pint.

He spent most of the day there. Once or twice he caught a couple members of the staff staring at him, but as long as was nursing a pint no one actually said anything to him and that was just the way he wanted it. Needed it. He stayed there for so long that it was getting dark by the time he left, and his mobile phone had several texts and missed phone calls from both Sherlock and Mike. John didn’t answer any of them. He took the tube home instead of a cab, because money would be a little bit an issue now, and walked the rest of the way.

Sherlock was already there, though he wasn’t working on an experiment or a case the way John might have expected. He was dressed in his uniform still and sitting on the sofa in complete darkness, and it was like he didn’t even realize the door had opened until John flipped the lights on. Only then did his head shoot up and he let his hands drop from where he’d been tugging at his hair. His eyes were wide and a little wild where he stared at John.

“John,” he breathed.

“Sherlock,” John returned, a fresh bout of weariness washing over him. He hadn’t done anything all day, but he was so exhausted that he just wanted to fall into his bed and sleep for the next week. And now he could because he was unemployed. A bitter laugh escaped before he could bite it back, and out of the corner of his eye he watched Sherlock flinch.

“John, I – I’m sorry. I didn’t think… I should have realized that my being here would put your job at risk,” he fumbled, the words sounding stilted and awkward. Not surprising, since John figured it was one of the rare times in his life that Sherlock had willingly offered an apology.

“It’s fine,” John said hollowly, setting his briefcase down. 

“No, it’s not.” Sherlock got up. “I don’t see what the big deal is. I’m of the legal age of consent.”

“I’m your teacher,” said John, and then he paused in the midst of beginning to take his jacket off. The words were hard to force out. “Or at least, I was.”

Sherlock bit his lip. After a moment, he said, “So what, they think I’m stupid enough to let you take advantage or some such nonsense?”

“It’s not nonsense!” John swung around towards him and Sherlock flinched. John froze, shocked, until it dawned on him that he was still holding his cane. He hadn’t raised it, was still using it for support, but that didn’t stop Sherlock from eyeing it like he was expecting John to use it against him at any second.

Shaken, John dropped the cane instantly. It made a dull thud as hit the ground. He stepped over it and grabbed for Sherlock, reeling him until that slender body was pressed against him. Sherlock went stiff all over and John exhaled on the urge to cry, holding him tightly but gently until he gradually felt Sherlock start to relax. Against his hair, John whispered, “I will never hit you, Sherlock. Not with a cane, not with my hand… not with anything. You’re safe here, I swear.”

Slowly, Sherlock’s arms wound around his chest. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

“It’s not your fault. I don’t blame you in the slightest,” John told him, and he meant it. “And I would never choose that job over you, or ask you to leave. I… _God_ , Sherlock.” He heard the desperation in his own voice, and perhaps it conveyed everything John could not find the words to say because Sherlock moved back just far enough to look at him.

Maybe it was the beer, maybe he actually was a little more drunk than he’d thought, but when Sherlock kissed him John didn’t pull away.


	8. Chapter 8

The headache throbbing in John’s temple when he woke up the next morning suggested that he really _had_ been a little more drunk than he thought when he left the pub. Either that, or the events of the day had been enough to knock him out with exhaustion and this was the remnants. He stayed where he was for a long moment, trying to get his bearings and work out what had happened. He remembered Sherlock kissing him last night, but not much after that. But oh god, that kiss. His memory of that was perfectly clear.

It was chaste, innocent almost, making it blatantly obvious that Sherlock had never really kissed anyone else before. Somehow that made it better, knowing that John was the first one to taste those plush pink lips. He’d placed his hands on Sherlock’s hips once the shock of the situation wore off, and the feel of the warm flesh underneath with only a layer or two in between had kicked off cravings that John mistakenly believed he had under control.

He slowly allowed his eyes to open. As expected he was in his bedroom, but for the first time in a very long time he was not alone. Sherlock was curled up beside him, sharing his pillow, one of his hands resting underneath his head for additional support. The other hand was loosely clasped around John’s forearm, like he was trying to keep John from slipping out of the bed in the middle of the night. His eyes were shut and he was breathing deeply, rhythmically, a tiny smile on his face.

The sight of his ex-student in bed with him might have freaked John out but for one important thing: they were both still fully clothed. John was even still wearing his jacket, having got distracted just as he was going to take it off. And since neither of them looked any worse for the wear and there was no dried mess in his boxers or on the sheets to deal with, he was convinced that nothing more than actual sleep had happened. The realization was both a relief and a disappointment, though far more the former than the latter.

John couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept in the same bed with someone just because. He rolled over onto his side, wincing as his bad leg and shoulder protested the move. He’d spent the night on his back and that always tended to make his muscles ache first thing. It took him a few seconds to find a comfortable spot, but then he was able to relax and take in the sight that was Sherlock at rest. He’d almost forgotten how nice it could to wake up next to someone.

It took a little while for Sherlock to wake up. The signs were subtle: his nose wrinkled, lips smacking together, and then his eyelashes fluttered. He blinked a couple of times, the blue-grey of his eyes just visible, before he caught sight of John. Then he snapped to attention, his fingers flexing around John’s wrist like he thought John might not be real, before he suddenly pulled his hand back and blushed an adorable shade of pink. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, his voice unexpectedly hoarse after a night of sleep. “I didn’t… Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” John said, suspecting that Sherlock would not approve of his assessment that it was pretty damn cute. “I wasn’t expecting to find you in my bed, though.”

“I was tired,” Sherlock said defensively, tucking both of his hands under the pillow now. “And last night, you didn’t seem like you’d mind.” He licked his lips and John unconsciously traced the path of that pink tongue before he stopped himself.

“I don’t,” he said, more honest than he likely should have been. God knew he’d already been fired because they suspected him of sleeping with Sherlock, so why shouldn’t he let it happen if it was something that they both wanted? Sherlock was of the legal age of consent and John was no longer his professor, so there was really nothing stopping them. And in all honesty the age gap between them wasn’t even that large, or at least it wouldn’t feel that way once Sherlock wasn’t a teenager anymore.

That stopped him in his tracks. When the hell had this gone from wanting Sherlock on a sexual level to wanting something more? To thinking long-term, of late nights spent giggling in front of the telly and early mornings curled up in bed together, of a new flat big enough to accommodate the both of them and a place where Sherlock was always welcome, never afraid that his next action might get him soundly beaten. He had no idea when his mind had jumped that track.

He sat up, needing to put a little distance between them. No matter what justification he used, he didn’t think he could do this. He’d seen what happened when teenagers were pushed into things they didn’t want, and he couldn’t do that to Sherlock. He would’ve got up off the bed entirely but for the small, strong hand that grabbed his wrist. John paused unwillingly, staring down at those fingers. They were long and dainty, musician’s fingers, and he wondered with a pang if Sherlock missed his violin.

“Who was it?” Sherlock asked, so quietly that John had to strain the words. “Who were you thinking about just now?”

“No one, Sherlock.”

“You’re not very good at lying, John. No, there was someone… your girlfriend, maybe?” And then, when John started to turn away, Sherlock amended quickly, “No, closer than that. A sibling.”

John paused, torn between leaving and staying. He didn’t really want to talk about Harry. He hadn’t spoken of her to anyone since that night, not even to his mother after his father finally died. And she had tried, for a little while, until he’d made it clear that her persistence in the matter would only end up driving him away for good. After that, she’d given up. Ella had tried, too, a couple of times after he first came home, though she had also stopped after he made it clear he would walk out rather than discuss his sister.

“John?” Sherlock whispered.

He sounded so _young_. Unbearably so. John turned back around, looking at him. “My sister,” he said reluctantly, not even sure why he was bothering. Except that he didn’t think he could leave Sherlock when he looked like that. 

Sherlock’s eyes searched his face, and John would have been willingly to bet that Sherlock had already deduced most of the story. Even so, he still asked, “What happened to her?”

“My father,” John said simply, and then words came tumbling out. “Harry was… she knew from a pretty young age that she liked girls. She was _never_ interested in guys. She wasn’t like me. I have no real preference, but it was all about the girls for her.” He smiled just a little, remembering. Oh yeah, Harry had been well and truly smitten with the female form. 

“Dad, though, he was strict. He made it clear right from the beginning that he wouldn’t accept that kind of thing. I knew better than to ever let on that I was interested in men, but Harry was stubborn. She couldn’t let it go. She couldn’t even keep it quiet. She had to flaunt it. He never hit her that I saw.” Because John wouldn’t have stood for that, child or not. “But the things he said… I could see it, what he was doing, but I couldn’t stop it.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Sherlock said awkwardly. It sounded like something he’d heard someone else say and was now repeating it because he thought he was supposed to, and John smiled a little wider.

“There were things I could have done, but I know now that I couldn’t have stopped her from drinking. I know I couldn’t have stopped her from killing herself.” He sighed as Sherlock stiffened. “Yeah. She was only seventeen at the time. She didn’t leave a note, but I knew… we all knew why she’d done it. Dad pretended that she was mentally unstable but I knew she just couldn’t take it anymore.”

He lifted his head and met Sherlock’s eyes. “That’s why… Sherlock, you’re just a kid. You’re only seventeen. It’s bad enough what you’ve gone through so far. I can’t take advantage of you like that. I know what it does to people.”

“That’s bullshit,” Sherlock said challengingly. “I’m sorry about what happened to your sister. I am. Your father sounds just like my uncle. But you’re not taking advantage of me, John. I _want_ this.”

“You think you do because I got you out of a bad situation. You don’t want –”

“Don’t tell me what I do or don’t want!” Sherlock snapped, and John froze because those words were painfully familiar. “I’m not stupid. I haven’t imprinted on you or whatever it is you’ve convinced yourself of so that you can dump me without feeling guilty about it. You can pretend all you want that this is about me, but it’s not. Maybe you’re the one who isn’t ready.”

He released John’s wrist and sat up, clearly planning to be the one who would march off in righteous fury. John reacted instinctively, practically lunging across the bed and grabbing him around the waist. He dragged Sherlock back down and pinned him there. Sherlock stared up at him, eyes wide with surprise. 

“Don’t,” John said, practically begged. “Please don’t go.”

Something in Sherlock’s expression softened. “John.”

“I’m sorry,” John whispered, the fight draining out of him, collapsing across Sherlock’s body. He pressed his face against Sherlock’s chest, trembling, and felt surprisingly strong arms wind around his back. Now that this was all out in the open he wanted to be tough enough to send Sherlock away, insist that he get a fresh start somewhere else. But he couldn’t. 

“It’s okay,” Sherlock murmured, and then he ran tentative fingers through John’s hair. It was wonderfully calming and John sighed, feeling the tension of the past few weeks – no, months – run out of him. “You seem to be under the impression that I never left my uncle’s house because I couldn’t. I could’ve left, John. The homeless network would have taken me in no questions asked. Lestrade probably would’ve helped, too. I just never had a reason to. I had a phone and somewhere I could work on my cases. That was all I needed.”

“He was _beating_ you,” John said, the words muffled, because if that wasn’t reason enough he had no idea what was.

“The body is only transport,” Sherlock replied. “Lestrade has tried to convince me to move out several times now. I just didn’t care to do so until I met you.”

“What? Why me?”

“You were interesting and helpful. You provided insights and helped me form conclusions that I wouldn’t have otherwise. You cared about my cases.” 

The unspoken ‘about me’ was all John heard, though. He lifted his head. Sherlock smiled at him, and he was beautiful in the early morning light. John was nearly overwhelmed by the sharp bite of affection, and he realized that he was already in this too deep. Somehow this boy – this _man_ had identified his defences and weaselled his way in before John knew what was happening. 

“I just don’t want to hurt you,” he said softly.

Sherlock shrugged, and, like it was really all so simple, said, “Then don’t.”

He had no argument to that, John realized. He wanted this too much, and knowing that Sherlock wanted it too had effectively disarmed him. He let his head fall back against Sherlock’s shoulder, holding onto him desperately.


	9. Chapter 9

John was expecting everything to change after he finally admitted how he felt about Sherlock. Somehow, very few things did. One of the only real differences was, because of the fact that he no longer needed to get up early and students didn't need to be at the school as early as the professors, he was able to wake up slowly and just take the time to luxuriate in the fact that there was a warm body lying right beside him - a body that was right under the covers with him, this time.

Not that he and Sherlock had done anything other than sleep next to each other and kiss. For John, that was more than enough at the moment. He needed just a little bit of time to get used to the fact that he could pull Sherlock into a hug whenever he wanted, that when he was watching telly and Sherlock was being stroppy he could tug the teen down onto his lap, that he could wrap his arms around Sherlock and fall asleep with his face tucked against a wild set of curls. 

But that wasn't to say he didn't think about it. He thought about it quite a lot, actually. Sherlock was a very attractive teenager, particularly now that his skin wasn't liberally covered with bruises. That pale flesh now looked like an unmarked masterpiece, and sometimes John indulged in thinking about what it would be like to pin him up against the nearest surface and create a few blemishes of his own. He refrained, of course, but sometimes the way Sherlock looked at him sorely tested his willpower. 

He woke up one Friday morning a couple of weeks after he'd been fired, his mind buzzing with the remnants of a dream in which he and Sherlock had done a lot more than just kiss. He brushed his hand lazily through Sherlock's hair and groped around for his phone with his free hand, squinting at the time. It was still early enough that Sherlock wouldn't need to get up for another twenty minutes, but someone had left him a voicemail already. A little bemused, he dialled in and put the phone to his ear.

"Hello John, it's Dee Smith calling. I just wanted to ask whether you were still planning on coming in to clean your office out, as we need to reuse the space starting Monday. If you don't come in today, I'll assume that means you're not interested in getting the rest of your things and I'll have it all put out with the rest of the school's rubbish. If you are, please remember that, as we discussed, I'd prefer it if you came by after school lets out."

The message ended there. John closed his eyes. He'd been trying so hard _not_ to think about it. The fact that he'd been fired still stung, and frankly he'd have preferred to never go back to the school if at all possible. He didn't even really like that Sherlock continued to attend, and had there been any other option he would've strongly suggested Sherlock take it But he'd left some irreplaceable things in his office that he wanted back. He dropped his phone on the bed and rubbed at his forehead, already feeling a headache throbbing. 

"I can collect your things on my way out today," Sherlock mumbled into his neck. "It won't take long, and that way you won't have to bother going in."

John had to swallow before he could answer. People could say what they liked about Sherlock, but in his own way the kid tried his best and there was no arguing that he had moments when he was sweeter than any other man or woman John had ever dated. "Thanks, but I don't want to get you into any more hot water. I'm sure someone would notice and that would only make the rumours even worse."

Blue-green eyes blinked at him as Sherlock pulled away a little, still hazy with sleep. "John, you know I don't care about that."

"I know you don't," John said. But he did. He knew that a couple of Sherlock's classmates had been giving him grief over living with a professor, as that bit of information had not stayed a secret for long. He also knew there was nothing he could do about it. He'd only be escorted off the grounds if he showed up during the day, and if he was seen talking to any students there was a good chance the police might even be called. That would only make the situation even worse. And raising a fuss about the matter wouldn't help, given the general opinion of Sherlock amongst the professors. He hoped that no one would encourage the bullying, but he doubted they would bother to stop it either.

Sherlock sighed. "You're being ridiculous," he said, but it was spoken with an air of indulgent amusement. He leaned down and brought their mouths together in one of the slow, lazy kisses that John had quickly come to adore. He was just getting into it when Sherlock pulled away and announced that he had to get ready for school.

This was the part of the day that John hated, when Sherlock left for a good seven hours and he wasn't sure what to do with himself. He spent most of the morning cleaning the flat from top to bottom, even though it wasn't really all that dirty to begin with. A couple of times he sat down to look through his employment prospects, but as always nothing looked worthwhile. He was either under or overqualified for every position. It was disheartening. He'd had an opportunity and he'd blown it, and, even though he would never regret taking Sherlock in, he found it hard to deal with an endless stretch of empty days.

At least soon it would be summer, he reflected, and then Sherlock would have some time off. Not being alone would make a huge difference. Of course, Sherlock would probably be spending most of his free time wrapped up in cases. John smiled to himself. Unless he developed an interest in helping to solve crime, he was liable to spend the summer alone, too. Somehow the thought was a lot easier to bear as long as he knew that Sherlock wouldn't be trapped at that school.

A little while before Sherlock would have normally returned home, he got dressed and left the flat. He took the tube down to his old stop and got off, for once relieved that using the cane meant he walked more slowly. He was in no particular hurry to reach his destination. All that he could hope for was that the place would be deserted and he wouldn't have to face anyone, particularly Jeanette and the headmaster. He had no desire to answer any more prying questions about the nature of his and Sherlock's relationship.

Classes were just ending when he got there, and he waited patiently until most of the students had departed before he went through the gate. He didn't bother going to the headmaster's office, even though he was certain that Smith had been expecting him to stop there first. He went straight to what had been his own office and used his key to unlock the door. It was immediately obvious that nothing had been touched since the last time he'd been in there; even the tests he'd been grading were still spread out across his desk.

He sighed, leaning his cane against the filing cabinet and shuffling closer. The tests would, presumably, be finished by someone else. It was disappointing. He'd never imagined that teaching might be a profession he was interested in, but he had enjoyed it more than he was expecting to. For the most part it was the same routine, but every once in a while there would be a moment - something would _click_ with a student - that made all the work worthwhile. Had Smith offered him a full time position, he would've seriously contemplated saying yes. 

There was nothing to be done for it now, though. Smith had made her position clear and John wasn't in the position to challenge it. He sat down in the chair and began sorting through the papers on the desk, trying to determine what needed to be dealt with immediately and what could wait. It was a more involved process than he was expecting, and John blamed that as the reason that he didn't even notice the man standing at the door until he was standing right in front of the desk.

John looked up slowly at the pointedly cleared throat and raised an eyebrow at the sight. The man was young, probably only a year or two older than him, but still dressed in an impeccable suit that probably cost a fortune. His expression was not welcoming in the slightest, but John still made an effort to smile. "Can I help you?"

"No," Sherlock said from behind the stranger, half-falling into the room. He was glaring, but he was panting so hard the effect was sort of ruined. "I already told you, Mycroft, this is none of your concern!"

"Mycroft?" John repeated, confused.

"I see that my brother has not bothered to mention me," Mycroft said dryly, and John stood up quickly. Somehow, this wasn't how he had imagined meeting Sherlock's brother - or how he'd thought Mycroft would look. He was older, for one thing, leaving a larger age difference between him and Sherlock than John had guessed. Not that Sherlock had really given him much detail, considering that he had only mentioned his brother a handful of times during their conversations.

"He's talked about you once or twice," John said, glancing between the brothers. "But I wasn't informed that you would be here today."

"That's because Mycroft set you up," Sherlock snapped, folding his arms and glowering even harder at his brother. "I started wondering about that call you received this morning on my way to school. I thought it was strange that Smith would insist you come in today. It didn't take me long to put it together. Go _away_ , Mycroft. This is none of your concern!"

Mycroft's gaze was distinctly cool. "Considering that I returned to the country last night to discover that you'd moved out of our uncle's house and in with a professor, Sherlock, I rather think it is. Particularly since the professor in question has since been dismissed."

"John hasn't done anything wrong!" 

"If you want to place the blame for this situation somewhere, I'd look at yourself."

Sherlock and John had spoken at the exact same time. Mycroft ignored his brother's comment, turning to face John instead. "Really," he murmured, the word dripping with disdain.

"Yes, really," John said, refusing to be cowed. God knew he'd faced a hell of a lot worse. He squared his shoulders and met Mycroft's eyes. "I don't have any siblings, so maybe I'm not in a position to judge. But I'm not going to feel bad about taking Sherlock out of a house where he was being beaten on a regular basis, no matter what anyone tries to insinuate about us or me."

Mycroft froze and, behind him, Sherlock winced. John looked back and forth between the two of them again, understanding slowly dawning as he took in the look on Mycroft's face. He'd always wondered what kind of brother would leave a younger sibling alone in that kind of environment. For the first time it occurred to him that this was Sherlock, who had openly admitted just a few weeks ago that even though he'd had plenty of opportunity to move out of his uncle's house, he hadn't bothered because he didn't see the point. 

"You didn't tell him, did you?" he said slowly to Sherlock. "Oh my god, Sherlock!"

"It's none of his business!" Sherlock hissed. "I was perfectly fine where I was. I didn't need Mycroft's help. I never have and I never will." He folded his arms, scowling. It was no doubt meant to make him look firm in his stance, but really it only served to make him look painfully young.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said, and that one word held several questions.

Sherlock refused to look at either one of them. "It was _fine_."

"No, it wasn't. Every time a professor sent a note home from school, your uncle beat your brother black and blue," John said. "That's why Sherlock came to stay with me in the first place. Because I wanted to get him out of there and... well, he could've gone somewhere else but I wanted to make sure he was okay." He figured it couldn't hurt to be honest now. No matter what Mycroft said, he wasn't giving Sherlock up. "What's between Sherlock and me has nothing to do with why he left your uncle."

"I'm beginning to see that," Mycroft said after a lengthy pause, his fingers tightening around the handle of his umbrella. "Sherlock, I need to speak with you immediately. Please excuse us, Doctor Watson." Without giving his brother a chance to protest, Mycroft hustled him out of the room. The door swung shut behind them and John exhaled, slumping back into his chair.

Of course Sherlock would've kept knowledge of the abuse out of the hands of the one person who could've done something about it without fear of revenge. Of _course_. He shook his head slowly, half tempted to eavesdrop on what he suspected was a very interesting conversation between the Holmes brothers. He didn't, though. He tossed the papers he'd been sorting through down on the desk and just started collecting his own things. There really wasn't much, but some things - such as a photograph of his family that included Harry - he wanted.

Just as he was finished, the door opened again. It was Mycroft, and he was alone. He studied John for a long moment, and right there John could see the similarities between the two Holmes brothers. They shared the same intense, scrutinizing stare that seemed as though it could pass straight through flesh and dissect the soul. Finally, Mycroft said, "I am planning to escort my brother to our uncle's residence so that he can collect the remainder of his things."

"Oh," John said, a little surprised - but also relieved. He knew that there were things Sherlock missed, like his violin. Things that he never would have gone back for alone, nor allowed John to accompany him for. That Mycroft had managed to convince him to go meant a lot.

"My uncle and I will be having words," Mycroft continued, as though John had not spoken, and there was a strange tension to the way he held himself that suggested the conversation would not go in his uncle's favour. "You will not need to worry about him any longer. My work frequently takes me outside of the country. I had believed that he would care for Sherlock." He stopped talking abruptly.

"It's okay," John said quietly. It wasn't, but he understood. A lot of people had failed Sherlock, and despite what he'd said earlier the blame couldn't be entirely placed on Mycroft.

Mycroft's smile was thin and brittle. "Thank you, Doctor Watson. You have my gratitude."

"I care about your brother," John said, mostly because he had an inkling as to where this conversation might be headed. "A lot. I meant what I said about wanting to make sure he was okay, and with me he is. He's happy. And I don't get the feeling Sherlock's had that a lot." He narrowed his eyes. "So I expect him to be there tonight at our flat for supper."

He received a bland look in response before Mycroft departed. John just stood there and listened to the sound of his footsteps receding in the distance. Maybe he should've been concerned, but he wasn't. Sherlock had made it clear that he knew what he wanted, and John thought it unlikely that anyone, never mind his brother, would be able to persuade him from that. He picked up his bag and grabbed his cane, deciding that he'd stop at their favourite Chinese restaurant for a take away on his way home.


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock didn’t show up for dinner, and after sending him a couple of texts John gave up, put the food in the refrigerator and went to bed. He fell asleep wondering what he would do if he woke up the next morning and Sherlock still hadn't come home, but as it turned out that wasn’t necessary. In the early morning hours, long before the sun would come up, he woke up to a familiar body scrambling into bed with him. He grunted as a knobby knee smacked him in the stomach and Sherlock hissed an apology right before he pressed freezing cold feet against John’s legs.

“Jesus Christ,” John yelped, trying unsuccessfully to squirm away. “Where the hell have you been? You’re ice cold.” He gave up on escaping Sherlock's iron grip and instead pulled the blankets higher, tucking them in tightly, before winding his own arms around Sherlock's back.

“Mycroft is annoying,” Sherlock mumbled by way of response, pushing his cold nose against John’s shoulder. “I told him that if we went back it would take forever, but of course he didn’t believe me.” He wiggled his toes against John's shins before adding in a very quiet voice. “My uncle wasn’t very happy.”

John tensed. “He didn’t…”

“No. Mycroft isn’t as high up in the government as he’d like to be, but he still has a certain amount of sway. He made threats that not even our uncle could ignore.”

“Why didn’t you let him do that sooner?” John asked. He felt the way Sherlock stiffened at the question, but he didn’t regret asking. He’d seen the look on Mycroft’s face after he’d heard about the abuse. There was no way Mycroft would’ve allowed that sort of behaviour to continue if he had known, regardless of how often his job took him out of the country.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Sherlock. Sherlock, hey. Yes, it does. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but it matters to me. I care.” He cared so damn much that sometimes he still couldn’t believe it. 

Sherlock sighed and said grudgingly, “Our mother died when I was thirteen. That’s when I was sent to live with my uncle. I didn’t want to go. He barely visited when we were children, so I didn't know him at all. But Mycroft was already in university and he didn’t want to drop out at that point.” His fingers were pressing so hard into John's waist that John knew he would end up with bruises later on. “I had already begged him not to go to university in the first place, but he still went. And then he got his job, and he loves that even more.”

So he hadn’t bothered telling his brother because he was afraid Mycroft would choose his job over his brother? John’s heart just about broke into a thousand sharp little pieces, and at that moment it felt like each piece was making it hard to breathe. He just wanted to take this lonely little boy and protect him from the rest of the world. He swept his hands up and down Sherlock’s back, searching for the right words that might help Sherlock to understand. 

“Mycroft loves you,” he said finally, not at all surprised by the snort he received in response. “It’s the truth. You might not believe that, and that’s okay. Maybe someday you will.” He kissed the top of Sherlock’s head. “If you had told him the truth, he would’ve come for you. But then you wouldn’t be here with me, and I don't know what I would've done with myself if you weren't.”

Slowly, the tension in Sherlock’s shoulders eased and he squirmed a bit closer. He didn’t say anything, and a few minutes later John heard his breathing even out to the point where he knew Sherlock had fallen asleep. He kept rubbing Sherlock’s back, amazed that such a terrible situation could’ve arisen from something as simple as an older brother’s desire to make his way in the world. He didn't know what Mycroft had said to their uncle, but he hoped that a lasting impression had been made.

He fell asleep at some point, and when he woke up the next morning everything was back to normal. Except at the same time, things were just a little different. Sherlock was more relaxed, more open. Over the next week or so he slowly moved some of his things into the bedroom, including his beloved violin. The instrument was given a place of honour in the corner nearest the window, and the first night that John had the chance to sit down and just listen to Sherlock play was incredible. Better still was the shy smile that appeared on Sherlock’s face when his abilities were praised.

John nourished an inkling – a half hope, maybe – that Mycroft’s interference might have been enough to get him his job back at the school. It was strange: he wasn’t actually sure that he would have accepted had the position been offered to him again, but a part of him wanted the opportunity to say no. A bigger part of him just wanted to bring in some income so that the two of them weren’t living entirely off his dwindling savings account. With two mouths to feed, even as little as Sherlock ate, he didn’t think his savings would last for more than another couple of months.

He knew it wouldn’t happen the day that Sherlock came home complaining about the new professor the school had just hired, who was, in his expert opinion, a complete idiot who didn’t know the slightest thing about anything. He’d been brought on just as the year was ending and so he wouldn’t officially start until next year, but he was learning the lay of the school ahead of time. And as far as Sherlock was concerned, he had already labelled himself as a waste of space. 

John listened to the incensed mutterings for a few minutes before, both to shut him up and in an attempt to conceal his own frustration, he pulled Sherlock close and kissed him. Sherlock made a surprised sound against his mouth but fell easily into the kiss, his hands coming up to grip lightly at John’s biceps. His lips parted easily and he hummed as John licked his way inside, slowly pressing closer until Sherlock was backed up against the kitchen counter and there was no space at all left between the two of them. 

“Anyone ever tell you that you talk too much?” he asked against Sherlock’s lips. Living with Sherlock, he was quickly becoming adept at reading between the lines of what Sherlock didn’t – wouldn’t – say. “You know you don’t have much longer until you graduate, Sherlock.”

“I can’t wait until I don’t have to go back,” Sherlock admitted. “I liked it better when you were there.”

John smiled. “So did I, but that’s not gonna happen.”

Keen blue-grey eyes studied him for a moment, seeing far more than John wanted him to, before Sherlock said carefully, “Have you had any luck?”

“Maybe. I’ve got something set up for tomorrow,” John replied. It was for a clinic. It would be drudge work, probably, at least at first. Coughs, colds, sprained wrists or ankles, things that he hadn’t had to contend with in years but which never really changed. It wouldn’t be exciting or challenging, but the head doctor – her name was Sarah Sawyer and over the phone, at least, she’d sounded very nice and sweet, if a bit confused as to why an army doctor would want to work at her clinic – was desperate.

He was hopeful, though. He’d been out of work for going on two months now. Sherlock would be done with his exams in the next week or so, so getting on even part-time would still give them plenty of time to spend together. He skimmed his fingers down Sherlock’s waist, about to say as much, but paused when he felt muscles flexing as Sherlock lifted his leg to hook his knee around John’s hips. He was amazingly flexible considering that he rarely exercised, John was already aware of that. Though he'd learned from watching Sherlock contort himself into impossible positions while watching the telly, as so far they had done little more than kiss. 

It wasn’t for lack of trying on John's part, either. He was ready for more, having grown comfortable with their relationship over the past few weeks, but every time he made an attempt to initiate something Sherlock would back off. And John was never going to be the sort of man who pushed for more than his partner was prepared for, so he was more than willing to wait. Now, though, there was no mistaking the pointed way that Sherlock was rocking against him.

“Hey,” he said, a little puzzled and a lot turned on, because of course his body was going to react with a gorgeous man squirming against him. “Sherlock, you know we don’t have to –”

“I know,” Sherlock said, sharp and impatient. “Consider it a celebration.”

“Of?” John asked, mentally flipping back and trying to remember if he had missed something. Sherlock didn’t seem like the kind of person who would care about anniversaries, and besides he was pretty sure today wasn’t one. Nor was it a birthday of some kind, and he didn’t have the job yet.

Sherlock huffed, like he loathed having to explain himself, and pushed the sleeve of his uniform up one arm. He then thrust the bared flesh in front of John’s face for inspection. At first John wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be looking for, but then he got it. The track marks on Sherlock’s arm, the ones that had so alarmed him back when this all began, were faded to thin red scars. Some of them were so old they’d gone white. More importantly, there wasn’t a single new mark to be found.

His heart skipped a beat and his eyes shot up to stare at Sherlock’s face. “Sherlock?”

“Three and a half months,” Sherlock said softly, uncertainly. “Not since the day you…” He trailed off, but John understood regardless: not since the day he’d discovered the marks in the first place. 

"You..." John was speechless. They hadn't broached the matters of drugs again, mostly because he didn't think either of them was prepared to have that conversation. He'd never expected Sherlock to take matters into his own hands and stop using of his own volition.

His body reacted of its own accord, pulling Sherlock into a kiss so deep and filthy that Sherlock was left gasping and trembling against him in surprise. He urged Sherlock backwards, cupping his hands under Sherlock's arse until he got the hint and hopped up onto the counter. It left John at a disadvantage height wise, but that was fine. It was all fine.

He slid closer, into the space left just for him between Sherlock's spread thighs, and let his hands wander beneath Sherlock's shirt. "You're amazing," he whispered into Sherlock's ear, knowing exactly how Sherlock would react to the right amount of praise, breathlessly uttered in a rough, low voice. "I'm so damn proud of you I want to burst. God, Sherlock, every time I look at you... you're so incredible. 

"You didn't have to do this for me, you know, and I wish I'd known. I would have helped you through it." He sucked the lobe into his mouth. Sherlock gasped and jerked against him, pressing his growing erection against John's belly. "The fact that you did it all on your own... Jesus. I don't have words for it."

"You were angry before," Sherlock said helplessly, his fingers clutching at John's shirt. "When you saw the marks."

"I was afraid," John corrected, turning his head and pressing kisses against the long line of his neck. "For you, I mean. I know what drugs can do to a person better than most. I never want to see you fall down that road, Sherlock. You're gorgeous and clever and smart and you're so much better than that, my good boy, you don't need that shit to be amazing."

Sherlock's hips shifted again and his head fell back, a soft sound escaping him. John lifted his head and just looked at him, his own breathing picking up just at the indescribable sight of Sherlock being so wanton and delicious. He wanted nothing more than to take Sherlock into their bedroom and lay him out, learn exactly what he liked the best and why. But at the same time, the thought of stepping away from the delicious heat was like torture. He couldn't have torn himself away at that moment for anything.

At least, not until Sherlock started grabbing at his shoulders. "Back, move back," he rasped, pupils dilated, and when John obeyed he slid to the ground. He slumped back, the middle of his back braced against the counter now, and it put them on just the right level. John groaned as he reclaimed his place, their hips sliding together perfectly. It had been a very long time since he'd last had someone pressed against him like this and he knew that he wasn't going to last long.

He looped an arm around Sherlock's waist, stilling the frantic movements and guiding him into a rhythm. They rocked back and forth slowly, heat building soft and sweet. John heard himself groan as Sherlock latched onto the side of his neck, unerringly finding that one little spot that never failed to make him see sparks. The feeling of that hot tongue licking away the beads of sweat forming on his collarbone combined with just the right amount of friction was almost too much. He gritted his teeth and tried to hold back.

"Perfect," he managed to get out, speaking the words directly into Sherlock's ear again. "I don't need you to change, my good boy. I love you just the way you are."

Sherlock made a choked, bitten off moan and shuddered as he came. John stared at his face, mesmerized, and ground harder against him automatically. It wasn't quite enough, he needed just a little bit more, and, like Sherlock knew what he was thinking, long, tapered fingers slithered between them and palmed his erection. Those fingers curled around his cock and a thumb rubbed over the sensitive head in just the right spot. John's breathing stuttered and he clutched Sherlock tighter, his orgasm leaving him feeling lazy and relaxed.

He pulled Sherlock into a much gentler kiss, not at all bothered by the cooling mess in his boxers. It was all worth it for the way that Sherlock melted against him. "I meant it," John murmured, knowing exactly what had set Sherlock off in the first place. "I love you."

"John, I -" Long lashes blinked once, anxious, and John smiled.

"It's okay," he said, kissing Sherlock on the forehead before dropping another kiss on his lips. He didn't need Sherlock to say anything, not anymore. He understood.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't forget to come follow me on [tumblr](http://tsuki-chibi.tumblr.com/)!


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